The Intruder First Knockout

Ron woke up with his face on the floor of his foyer, in the middle of steadily growing pool of his own saliva.

His body woke with a jerk, a sudden jump, then settled as his brain went into a hard restart. In a flash, all of the major details loaded in, reminding him of the important things. His name was Ron Jackson, he was a bank teller, he lived in a reasonably upscale neighborhood in Charleston, South Carolina, he had a wife, he had a dog, he had a car that he'd just finished paying and was only now showing engine problems. He was middle-aged with a growing bald spot, he worked out just enough to be not too fat and not too thin, he had a stable job with little chance of promotion and little chance of being fired. Just a normal, stable, average American life.

Until he answered the door five minutes ago, anyway. If it even was five minutes - he honestly couldn't be sure on that fact. He'd just come in from a boring day at the job, looking forward to enjoying some TV time in the precious hours before his wife, Anna, returned from her day job at the library. Just as he was pulling off his tie, the doorbell rang, and he didn't think much of it, not at first. He thought he'd heard a car pulling up a minute or so. The library wasn't too far away, only a mile or so, and sometimes Anna stopped by on her break for a quick meal. Nonchalant and cool, he made his way out of the bedroom, passed the living room, stepped into the foyer, opened the door, and-

And...

And that was where it got fuzzy, with details he was still trying to put together as he pushed up off the floor. He'd opened the door and his wife hadn't been there. Someone else. Someone bigger, someone close to his size. Whoever this guy was, he moved fast, so fast that Ron couldn't get a good look at whoever he was as he came rushing into the house. The next thing he knew, the intruder was behind him, arms were circling around his throat, he put up a fight for all of five seconds as his airway was squeezed shut, and then there was only darkness.

As he pushed his way up, groaning at the protests of his body, he only had three questions - who was that man, what did he want, and, most pressing, where was he now?

The answer to that final question came in an instant. Ron heard the thump-thump-thump of rushing footsteps as he rose up to his knees, coming at him from the side out of his living room. He'd just managed to turn his head that way when a sharp pain sliced into his ribs, enough to knock him over on his back. Was this a mugging? Was he being robbed? If that was the case, why was this man still here, why didn't he just taken what he wanted while Ron was knocked out, why would he-

This wasn't a man.

Ron could tell that right away, as the intruder stepped over his fallen from, planting her red high heels on both sides of his prone body. His eyes traveled up her body inch by inch, making their way up a pair of rippling legs. There was little fat on these legs, and what little he could spot didn't do much to hit the bulging muscles. Wide and long, the seemed to swell with power, showing off muscles he didn't even know the human body possessed. Those legs were connected to strong, svelte hips, and abs that he could clearly see, since the woman dressed in nothing but black lingerie. It clung tight to her alabaster skin, so tight that he couldn't help but wonder what the point of it was. Her breasts, just large enough for him to wrap his hands around each one, threatened to swell over her top, so much that he could see her areolas peeking up over her bra.

Her arms were strong, not as thick and veiny as her legs, but far more solid than Ron's, with the tattoo of a serpent winding around her left bicep. Her shoulders bulged, looking hard enough to deflect bullets, with a faint scar running around them served as the only thing marring on a perfect body. Her hair was long and black, trailing down behind her, leaving a few stray strands to drape across her chest.

Out of all that, what stood out to Ron the most - what frightened him, kept him pinned to the floor - was her face. It was a pure face, clean and smooth, one that couldn't have belonged to a woman a day over thirty, with dark, black narrow eyes that might've spoke of some Asian heritage. It was a beautiful face, one that would've lit up the room if she smiled. Only she didn't smile. Didn't smirk. Didn't say a word. Didn't even blink. She looked down at him with a stern, unmoving glare, one of pure contempt, as if this was her house, and [i]he[/i] was the intruder. As if he was just a cockroach that wandered under the door, and now she was considering whether or not he was worth the trouble of crushing.

It took Ron a moment to process this and remember that he was capable of using his mouth for more than gawking. "What-" He stammered the words, then found some courage and started to sit up, putting more bass into his voice. He was a man, this was his house, and she didn't belong here. "What do you think you're-"

The woman sat down, which wouldn't have been a big deal normally. The problem was that she sat down [i]on him[/i], and she did so in the roughest way possible, dropping her full weight on his stomach. She didn't weigh too much, had little fat on her body, but that made it worse. Her body was solid, had no give, and the hardwood floor Ron laid on wasn't any softer. The drop drove the air out of him, and he would've screamed if he had the breath to do it. Instead he jerked upwards, eyes wide, gasping, flailing wildly.

A hand around his throat put a stop to that right away, as the intruder gripped him tight and slammed him back down. The blow alone would've left his head swimming, but now he had an unflinching grip around his throat. He kicked his heels, she squeezed. He pulled at her wrist, she squeezed [i]harder[/i]. Nails dug into his skin, tiny daggers, and his body went into a desperate frenzy. While one hand pulled at her wrist in vein, the other balled into a fist and shot out, drumming hard against her iron abs, looking to give her some incentive to let go.

Her response? A slap. A slap that hit his face like a punch, one that left him seeing stars and would've jerked his head to the side if she wasn't pushing down on his neck so hard. Another slap followed that, and another, and another, until Ron's vision was nothing but darkness and flickering stars and her face. Her cold, chilling face.

She didn't have the look of a woman choking a man to death. She had the look of a scientist inspecting an amoeba through a microscope. Curious. Attentive. Caring? No. His resistance faded away as his body lost the energy to fight, his punches against her abs turned to taps and turned to nothing, and pleaded with his eyes and tried to squeeze out a few desperate words, but none of it moved that face.

It was the last thing he saw as his world went dark once again.